Page 91 of The Mister I Married

She nodded, her guilt a heavy rock in her belly. “Yet you let me go anyway.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“I know. But you let me go all the same.” She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “A woman could do a lot worse than you for a husband, Alex Whitcomb.”

He raised a brow, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll remind you of that the next time you try to run away.”

She shook her head. “There won’t be a next time.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Absolutely,” she said firmly. “I love Bristlewood. I love your father and Tess and Prescott and Gracie. And most of all, I love you.”

He kissed her, as if wanting to taste the words on her lips and then he pressed his forehead to hers. “I was afraid you never would,” he said, his voice a husky rasp. “I was afraid you wouldn’t let yourself.”

“I didn’t want to,” she whispered, echoing his earlier words, and this earned her another smile.

Oh, how she adored his smile. She would do everything in her power to keep it there for the rest of her days.

“I know you didn’t,” he whispered back. “But I’m glad you did.”

“So am I.” She looped her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his chin. “I tried so hard to guard my heart, but you stole it anyway. You are impossible to resist, it seems.”

“I love you, Emmy.”

“I love you, too—with all my heart. With all that I am.”

And she meant it. No more boundaries, no more restrictions. She was Emmy—marquess’s daughter, unrepentant busybody, reader of gossip rags.

She was Lady Emmaline, and she was Mrs. Whitcomb. She was a sister, a friend, a daughter, a wife.

She used to think she could never have everything her heart desired, but she was wrong. She could, and she would.

They both would.

She’d make sure of it.